“Did you ever hear such a damnable lie?” he exclaimed angrily; “the idlest, most miserable attempt to circulate a fable.”
“On the contrary,” I replied thoughtfully, “I have expected some such tidings for many days.”
“To what do you refer, M. le Maréchal?” he asked coldly.
“To the announcement of the czar’s intentions in regard to his marriage.”
“It is not that,” he said with impatience; “it is the lie about Najine,—that she has yielded so readily.”
I smiled. “After all, monsieur,” I rejoined gently, “are you sure that she may not have changed her mind? The pressure must have been tremendous, and she is young and doubtless ambitious.”
He paused before me, looking into my eyes, his flushed face unusually handsome in its anger.
“You drive me mad, M. le Vicomte,” he said bitterly. “I know that I am no match for a czar, but I judge mademoiselle’s heart by my own. Neither do I believe her so weak as to yield to any pressure; she has a noble spirit. I would stake my life upon her truth.”
I rose, and laid my hand upon his shoulder. “I did but jest, Guillaume,” I said kindly. “I have often tried you and never found you wanting. A hot-headed lover, but a loyal one. Mademoiselle is fortunate. But plainly, monsieur, I have no doubt that the czar does intend to wed her, and I do not at the moment perceive how either you or I can prevent it.”
He felt the truth of my words, and stood looking at the floor, his expression for the first time showing great depression.